


Identity

by EmperorNortonII



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmperorNortonII/pseuds/EmperorNortonII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes quite a while after Kijuju before Jill feels like herself again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on AFF.net. Appears here with slight tweaks.

The first thing Josh Stone had said to her, or almost the first thing, was "You're Jill Valentine." She sometimes feels like going back and correcting him, because in retrospect, that feels like a lie. "I was" might be closer to it, or "That woman is dead."

It's one of the things Jill has time to think about, in the months after she, Chris, Sheva, and Josh get out of Kijuju. At that point, they're separated, taken for debriefing and decontamination, and once the BSAA finds out who she is and what she's been doing, the real fun begins.

She spends six weeks being poked and prodded by the best biologists and virologists the BSAA can get their hands on. Jill's no stranger to this--one of the drawbacks to being a BSAA field agent has always been the really enthusiastic medical exam after you've been in the field, just to make sure you're not going to mutate into a Neo-Proto-Mega-Tyrant or something--but now that Wesker's dead, she's become the most fascinating human on the planet. Between the residual traces of the P30 superdrug, her previously-unknown immunity to most of the Umbrella-generation bioweapons, and her having been in the same time zone as multiple Uroboros infectees, she's a wanted commodity in every lab in the first world.

By the time that's done, she's left samples of her blood, lymph, spinal fluid, urine, hair, and tissue scattered all over Europe. It is difficult to feel positive about the potential outcomes of the associated research, such as the possibility of vaccines or cures, when she's a few pints low and covered in healing needle marks.

The BSAA's also been debriefing her, looking for whatever it can get about Wesker and Tricell's projects, holdings, funding, and outposts. She's a gold mine of information, but after a while it becomes obvious that Jill's told them all she can, and they subtly transition into making sure that she isn't still compromised. That means a lot of brainwave scans and a few exit interviews with people who don't tell her they're psychologists.

After all that's over with, she spends two weeks on the phone, because she's been legally dead for almost three years. The BSAA has some administrative clout, and Chris gets Leon Kennedy to talk to some people on her behalf, but it's still a bureaucratic nightmare.

Finally, three months after Kijuju, she's got documents, identification, a passport, two years of under-the-table back pay from the BSAA with a nice big hazard bonus, a couple of guns, and the use of a small apartment in Paris that used to be a safehouse, because she's like everyone else and has always thought it would be nice to live in Paris.

At this point, Jill puts her foot down, to all the well-wishers and interview seekers and starry-eyed young BSAA agents and even her friends: leave me alone. That's what I want now. Take your army of psychiatrists and go the hell away.

This is disappointing to many people on several levels, because Jill's one of the Original Eleven and her reputation's gotten even more inflated since she came back from the dead. The theory appears to have been that once she was cleared for it, she'd go back on active duty and kick a hole in the world. No such luck.

Still, one of the side benefits to being Jill Fucking Valentine is that she can usually get what she wants. Soon enough, some anonymous rookie drives her to the new apartment, wishes her luck, and leaves her there.

* * *

The first few nights are the hardest. Now that she actually _is_ alone, it takes some getting used to, and the worst parts of the last two years play on a constant film loop in her mind. Jill self-medicates with vodka for the first couple of weeks, but that doesn't last long. Whoever she is now, she's apparently not inclined to drink herself to death in a Parisian gutter. This is good to know.

Instead, she starts working out, just as she used to have to do before she spent two years jacked up on super-soldier serum or whatever the hell Wesker had her on. She explores Paris on foot, jogging with no route in mind and no plan. She relearns her high school French, whacks most of her hair off, visits most of the horrible tourist attractions, drinks strong coffee in little sidewalk cafes and makes friends with other American expatriates. Every time she has an ordinary conversation or a new experience, it pushes her a little further into the world, and away from the underground reality that Wesker inhabited.

For the next few months, Jill does what she wants, when she wants to do it. She eats a lot of pastries, does some spontaneous traveling, and attends a lot of concerts. Some of it's honestly boring, a lot of reading on the couch, but it's not so much what she does as it's simply the luxury of having the choice in the matter, of being able to decide for herself.

Eventually, Jill begins to renew her old acquaintances. She's sent out the occasional email just as a status update, letting everyone know that she's still alive ("Did not eat a bullet today. Yay. XXOO, Jill." She does not send this email to Chris, although she is briefly tempted to do so), but she starts writing longer letters to more people. She even signs up for a social network, but as far as she can tell, it is a method by which Claire Redfield can send her bootlegs of live rock shows and pictures of cute puppies and serves absolutely no other purpose.

As she's going down her list, updating contact information, it occurs to Jill to get in touch with Sheva Alomar. She almost doesn't bother, because aside from that helicopter ride out of Africa and that one time they nearly fought to the death, they barely know each other. When Jill looks at the BSAA's online directory, though, it turns out Sheva's been reassigned. She's at the London branch office, three hours away by train. That makes Jill's mind up, and she picks up the phone.

* * *

"Is there a lot to do for a BSAA agent in the UK?"

"Not that much, actually, but Chris wanted someone near you," Sheva says matter-of-factly.

Jill puts down her wine glass. "Really."

They're sitting across from one another in front of a tiny café that's otherwise full of college students, most of whom are sneaking quiet glances at one or both of them. Jill's in a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans, as casual as it gets, and her hair's grown back in as a gradually darker shade of brown. It's not quite her natural color yet, but it's getting there.

"He worries about you." Sheva, conversely, showed up in a gray herringbone blazer and knee-length skirt, with her hair tied back and her eyes hidden behind slightly tinted glasses. She's the image of an upscale London executive, except that Jill can see where her holstered handgun breaks the line of the jacket. BSAA operatives don't go anywhere unarmed anymore. "I probably wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Are you two...?" Jill points at Sheva.

"Nothing so formal." Sheva was obviously expecting the question, and it makes her smile. "He's very much married to the BSAA."

"And you're not?"

"If you'd asked me that before Kijuju, I'd have said yes." Sheva drinks some of her martini. "Now Tricell's gone, and I played a very large role in that. I wanted to make someone pay, and I did."

Jill nods.

"Now it's a question of figuring out what to do next," Sheva says, "and in the meantime, it's still good work."

"Chris didn't mention trying to get me back on the job, did he?"

"He said I shouldn't even try."

Jill smiles thinly. "I guess he still knows me."

* * *

London to Paris is a long train ride just for dinner, so Sheva stays over the weekend and goes back on Sunday afternoon. They have a lot in common professionally, which surprises Jill more than it should; the BSAA employs more female agents than most agencies on its level, but not so many that most of them don't spend some time as the only woman in a unit. They goof around the city together for a couple of nights, hitting the three or four restaurants she hasn't tried yet, and the conversations come easily. By the time Sheva leaves, they've decided it won't be the last time they get together.

Jill pays attention to the news and still has an ear to the ground, with a couple of black-market contacts who don't know Wesker's dead, so she knows how bad it's getting. There are reports of leftover T-Virus infections in the midwestern United States, parts of the Amazon are growing back faster than they should, T-Abyss mutations are still washing up on the shores of the Mediterranean, and there have been new bioweapon attacks as close by as the Black Forest. There are enough desperate ex-Umbrella operatives in play at this point that even their top-secret projects, like the G-Virus, are ending up on the black market. The BSAA is recruiting as fast as it can, private security companies and military contractors are paying top dollar for operatives with anti-bioweapon experience (which is how Barry Burton is putting his daughters through college, apparently), and there's a lot of effort being put into keeping the worst of it out of the mainstream news.

Sheva doesn't bring it up and Jill doesn't push her. They seem to have settled into an unspoken contract: don't ask me about work and I won't tell you how badly we need you back.

They might as well be two normal women, or what Jill imagines normalcy to be. Sheva sometimes stops by on her way back from some distant corner of the world, or Jill invites her up for a weekend when it occurs to her to do so, and that works out to seeing one another once every month or so. They visit the tourist spots again, go to movies, visit Monaco and Versailles, make fun of each other for having awful accents when they try to speak French, and often end up stumbling back to Jill's place or to a hotel, both a little dizzy off red wine and giggling like morons.

* * *

It comes up very naturally.

It's a warm morning in April of 2010. There's an article in that day's New York Times that quotes a guy named Jettingham, a soldier in the U.S. Special Forces. Sheva reads part of it aloud and Jill says, "Hey, I know him," without thinking.

"Oh, did you work with him?" Sheva asks, and folds up the paper. She's sitting at Jill's little kitchen table, wearing a slept-in button-down shirt and drinking coffee. Her legs are long and bare.

"No," Jill says, "he was actually in Raccoon City during the outbreak, leading a squad of soldiers. I'd hoped he was alive, but it's nice to get confirmation." She cracks four eggs into an oiled cast-iron pan.

Sheva looks back down at the paper for a second, then back at Jill. "You know, I've always been curious about something. Weren't you in the Special Forces?"

It takes Jill a second to remember that Sheva doesn't already know this story. "Sort of. I was on the fast track there. They put me in a couple of ads."

"I think a lot of the younger agents wonder about that. You're still a bit of a legend, you know. The BSAA gets a lot of female recruits because of you, but no one seems to know how you ended up out of the service so quickly."

Jill's toaster pops, and she dumps the slices of bread onto a plate. "DADT."

"What--wait, Don't Ask Don't Tell? That's the prohibition against--" Sheva blinks a couple of times. "Oh."

"Yeah. I'd gone into the service at seventeen and I was doing really well for myself. I'd talked to people about moving up to officer school, maybe even a spot in the Funny Platoon." Jill sighs. "Then in '96, some of the guys in my unit saw me with a girl I knew in town. I was a little drunk, we were kissing, and that was that."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Then Wesker offered me a spot on the STARS team, and the rest is history. This is why the BSAA mentions sexual preference in the anti-discrimination part of the charter, by the way. I was very clear on that."

"So you and Chris never...?"

"I didn't say that." Jill smirks, picks up the pan, and slides the fried eggs onto two plates.

She brings the toast and eggs to the kitchen table on a tray, along with some jam and the coffee pot, and the two of them attend to that for a while.

Then Sheva chuckles. "I guess that explains that."

"It's not a big secret. It just wasn't very relevant." Jill sighs again, looking out the window. "Chris and I were both obsessed, first with bringing Umbrella down, and then with chasing terrorists. It didn't leave a lot of time for anything else. I'd made plans, but not much beyond that."

"He's said as much to me," Sheva says. "He even said he'd thought about quitting."

"And do what?"

"That's one of the reasons why he didn't quit. Can you imagine Chris as anything other than what he is?"

"No," Jill says. "I have the same problem."

* * *

Six months later, Jill feels like her time in Paris is coming to an end.

The world is quiet, or as quiet as it gets, but there are a lot of things bubbling under the surface. Her location and contact information get leaked somehow, right at the start of spring, and she's shocked to discover she's still a person of interest. Several governments and most of the PMCs on the planet want to hire her, she gets a few journalists or academics looking for quotes or full interviews, and a dozen other people offer her thanks or threats or, weirdly, a modeling job.

It's tempting to cancel her phone, delete her email address, and go back to her life of relative obscurity, but Jill's running out of money and, if she's being honest with herself, she's starting to get bored. One way or the other, she's got to do something.

When she says as much to Sheva, a couple of weeks later, it doesn't get the reaction she's expecting. They're standing in an art gallery when Jill says it, and Sheva smirks faintly, then folds her arms and walks over to the next painting. It's some indecipherable work of modern art, all lines and splashes of stark color, but Sheva examines it like it's forensic evidence.

"C'mon, I know you heard me," Jill says. "Do you think the guys at the BSAA would--"

"They'll throw a party," Sheva says without looking at her. "You'll have your pick of postings, any bureau in the world. Probably command of a squad, if you want one. Every time I've let it slip that I'm on my way to see you, someone asks if it's to bring you back to work."

"You've never said that."

"You never asked. Do you think it's the right move for you?"

Jill takes her time answering that. "I know I could do something else, but... I've thought about it for a while now, and anything else seems like it'd be a step down." This is the first time she's articulated that, but it comes out very smoothly, and she's pleased to discover it's the truth.

Sheva nods. "I thought as much."

There's something about her body language and tone that's got Jill a little on edge, so Jill steps between Sheva and the painting. "Is there a problem?"

Sheva turns and walks away, towards the gallery's street exit, and Jill follows her.

"Talk to me, Sheva," Jill says.

She holds up one hand and takes a deep breath, then lets it out. "No, I'm not being fair. Hold on a tick."

They move over to a darker hallway off the lobby, which leads to the gallery's offices, and Sheva finally makes eye contact. "My first reaction was to be annoyed that I wouldn't be able to slip off to Paris any longer. I've had a lot of fun with these little trips, and I'm sad to see an end to them."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Jill says. "We could still..."

She lets the thought trail off, because Sheva already knows what she's just figured out. There's a very real chance that they'll never see each other again once Jill's back on the job, both because Jill will be constantly traveling and because the job is _incredibly dangerous_.

"Yeah," Jill says finally. "I see what you mean."

"When d'you think you'll make the call?"

"I don't know. By the new year at the latest."

Sheva purses her lips. "So... maybe three months?"

"Yeah. I shouldn't put it off much longer than that."

"All right," Sheva says, "which leads me to this."

She puts a hand on either side of Jill's head and kisses her.

Jill's eyes go wide and she freezes in place the moment Sheva's lips touch hers. There have been about ten thousand moments over the course of the last few months that she figured she was misinterpreting; a lingering touch here, a certain choice of clothing there, nothing overt. Now all of them flood back into her head over the course of about a second and a half and her brain shorts out.

When their lips part again, Jill's leaning heavily against the closest wall, Sheva's body is pressed against hers, and Jill's hands migrated to Sheva's hips at some point in the last thirty seconds. The butt of Sheva's gun, in a hip holster under Sheva's hip-length jacket, is poking Jill in the side. Sheva's eyes open again and there's a remarkable lack of uncertainty on her face.

"So," Jill says finally, "I guess I missed something."

"No, no," Sheva says, half-smiling, "I just now made up my mind."

"Oh. Good."

"I've been wondering about it since that helicopter ride out of Kijuju. How you'd react. Turning it over in my head." Sheva leans her forehead against Jill's. "I decided I'd better give it a try before it was too late."

Jill opens her mouth to say something else, but there's movement out of the corner of her eye. Sheva catches it too, and the two of them slowly turn their heads. There's a small crowd of scandalized and/or keenly interested people gathering at the end of the hallway, watching them make out, and once they notice Jill and Sheva have noticed, they get out of there. A couple give Jill and Sheva a thumbs up, or stare until somebody else pulls them away.

"Maybe," Jill says, and swallows hard, "maybe we ought to continue this conversation somewhere more private."

"Your place?"

"Sure."

* * *

They're stealing little loaded glances at each other. Jill is pretty sure that the cab driver, who's already spending too much time watching the two of them in his rearview mirror, will pile this thing into a tour bus if he sees them do anything else.

There's a sort of charge between them right now, like static electricity. Jill gently touches the back of Sheva's hand where it's flat against the backseat of the cab, but that's it. Anything else, even talking, will have consequences.

By the time they pull up outside Jill's apartment, they're both about to explode and the cab driver's so excited that he almost jumps out of the cab with them. Jill throws a handful of money into his lap, not bothering to count it, and she and Sheva head into her apartment building at something just shy of a full run. Jill unlocks her apartment door, although not without briefly forgetting how keys work. The moment it's open, Sheva knocks her through it with something that's half enthusiastic kiss, half body tackle.

Jill closes the door behind them, and turns around to see Sheva peel off her light jacket. This is so she can take off her holstered gun, which she removes and places gently on Jill's kitchen counter. The sight of the gun makes them both hesitate, but not for long. They leave a trail of discarded clothes all the way into Jill's bedroom.

* * *

"So," Jill says, "about that conversation we were going to have."

They're wrapped around each other on Jill's bed, heads close together like conspirators, her left hand knotted into Sheva's right. Outside, the sun is setting, which always turns Jill's bedroom into a scene from a film noir, as the last light of day passes through her Venetian blinds and falls in stripes across the bed. They're both naked, pressed against each other in all the places and ways they can be, with the sheets and blankets kicked into a messy pile at the foot of the bed.

"I think that qualified," Sheva says. "Don't you?"

"Yeah. I guess it did."

"Had it... been a while? That was a bit more enthusiastic than I'd expected."

"Maybe five years."

Sheva looks at her strangely.

"It was important to be alone," Jill says, "and to be me. Not somebody's girlfriend or lover or fling. Just me."

"Oh. I didn't... this was okay, right?"

"Better than okay." Jill brings Sheva's hand up to her lips and kisses it. "I think I really needed this."

"Good, because if you think we're done..."

"Oh, God, no. You have no idea how much trouble you're in."

* * *

Sheva uses up some vacation time in the morning, telling London she won't be back in the office for a while.

The next week gets a little loose around the edges. They don't leave the apartment again until six days later, when the empty refrigerator serves as a handy excuse to get some fresh air. They stumble around an all-night grocery a few blocks away, laughing quietly and clinging to each other and leaving absolutely no doubt in any onlooker's mind exactly what is going on here. Fortunately, it is still Paris and even this is not entirely unusual; Jill's not sure what reaction they'd have gotten in New York, but she's pretty sure it would've involved cops.

That leads into the last day and night before Sheva goes back, though, and knowing it's the last night for a while actually slows them both down. They collaborate on a meal, linguini and scallops with fresh bread and a lot of wine, then crawl into bed and, even though they both want to do something more, fall asleep together.

The next morning, they oversleep to the point where Sheva misses her first train and has to hustle for the next one. That means the goodbye isn't quite as thorough or maudlin as it might've been otherwise; Sheva just picks up her suitcase, plants a kiss on Jill that's so hurried that it's almost chaste, and runs out the door.

When she's gone, Jill looks around her apartment. It even smells like Sheva right now, the scent of her baked into the walls, and they've knocked over some furniture in the last week. Every room and flat surface now has a X-rated story attached. The neighbors have all probably either moved out or set up observation cameras.

She makes a weak attempt to clean up, which kills about an hour. Then her PDA chirps. There's a new text message from Sheva:

_Come back to work. But not yet._

Jill smiles, saves the message, and dials Chris's number from memory. He picks up after the first ring.

"Hey," he says. The signal's not great, and she belatedly realizes she has no idea where he is. There's no actual gunfire in the background, though, so she can't be interrupting anything too important.

"Hey, Chris," Jill says. "You think the BSAA still has room for me?"

"Always."

"Good. How about I come back to work in a couple of months?"

"I'll have them start the paperwork. Is Sheva still there with you?"

"No, she just left. So... about you sending her to keep an eye on me...?"

"Yeah," Chris says blandly, "that was her idea. She's a little obvious about some things."

"You know, you're pretty smart for a guy with biceps the size of his head."

"I do what I can." There's been an implied laugh in his voice since they started talking, but then it goes away. "How are you doing? Really."

"I'm fine, Chris. It's me."


End file.
